


invicta

by patrexes



Series: Kinktober 2019 [24]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Fantastic Racism, Forced To Beg For It, Genital Mutilation, Gratuitous Headcanon, Hate Crimes, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Misogyny and Gendered Violence, Patch 2.5: Before The Fall, Transphobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 10:53:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21968128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/patrexes/pseuds/patrexes
Summary: “Must wish I’d not foundthis,” Ilberd crowed.
Relationships: Ilberd Feare/Alphinaud Leveilleur
Series: Kinktober 2019 [24]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1492133
Comments: 14
Kudos: 32





	invicta

Alphinaud stood shivering despite the warmth of the room in only his bodysuit and boots, already divested of his jacket. Torn roughly from his hands no sooner had he slipped out of it, he’d forced himself to watch—and the more difficult, forced himself to _breathe_ —as Ilberd rifled through the various pockets stitched into the lining, but finally closed his eyes so as not to witness the fury writ across Ilberd’s features at the moment his hand closed around the grip of the knife. 

Overlarge in Alphinaud’s own, he only carried it because his parents had been so worried for the twins’ safety, alone in Eorzea. He’d never even learned how to use it: realistically, in a fight it would be far more hazardous than helpful, but all the same he felt somehow safer in having it close at hand. _Had_ felt safer. 

“Must wish I’d not found _this_ ,” Ilberd crowed. His tone was—something was in it that Alphinaud could get no bearing of, and found himself lacking any desire to further examine. Viciousness, yes, anger, but wallowing in it, nearly gleeful. “Can’t even bear to look? It’s yours, is it not?” And then, “Oh, open your damn eyes.” 

Ilberd’s own gleamed righteous and satisfied in his ire as, rather than making to lock it in the contraband safe against the far wall where his grimoire had already been deposited, he turned the knife over in his hand, inspecting the molded carbon fiber of the grip—a style Alphinaud had found was unlike the work of any Eorzean smith. Alphinaud flinched when he unsheathed the blade. 

Running his finger along the edge, Ilberd nodded when he found it sharp. “Brutal,” he noted—a compliment, or nearly one. “I never expected as much from you. But sate my curiosity for a moment, _Commander_ ; where did you get a blade like this?” 

“I, it—” he found himself at a loss for words, or at least for words which would ring true but not see him gutted. “It was given to me for lack of another weapon, for, for self defense…” And what a fine self defense it was, getting him in only worse trouble for having it secreted away at the inside back of his jacket. 

“Given to you,” Ilberd repeated. His fist clenched around the hilt of the knife, fitted not poorly to his hand, and his voice was low, dark and dangerous as he repeated, “ _given to you_ ,” as if it were a curse. “A number of Ala Mhigans born after the occupation, for lack of another weapon,” and this spurn nothing if not deliberate, with doubt heavy in his voice; a raised eyebrow and tilt of the head given to the belt upon which Adelphoi typically resided, “they make use of rocks, or lengths of rope, or naught but the strength in their own hands to bring down the enemy. Win these knives from their corpses.” Ilberd turned it over once more in his hand, inspecting the siglum stamped on the flat of the machined blade. _LEG XIV_. 

It was the blade Alphinaud’s mother had been provided upon her enlistment: the standard-issue auxiliary weapon of a footsoldier in the melee, a small measure of security should she be separated from her lance. The vision of some faceless stranger crouching over her—over her crumpled body, killed for naught but the colors on her uniform—to wrench her knife from cold fingers as if the blade were some manner of _prize_ put a knot in Alphinaud’s throat. The Empire was cruel, he would be the first to say so, and an end needed put to its ceaseless conquest, but there was no sense to violence such as that, nothing gained worth even half its toll. No battle won, only lives— _families_ —destroyed, a like-as-not conscripted soldier’s breath stolen from their throat and their murderer’s life in a way lost as well. 

Too scared even to blink, Alphinaud’s eyes stung. “It means _nothing_ ,” spat Ilberd, “to be given what ought to be _earned_. You would mock my people’s struggle. Those soft hands of yours couldn’t wring the neck of one of those three-eyed bastards. Even put this knife in your hands and you’d lack the resolve to put it to good use.” 

Alphinaud couldn’t seem to get enough air into his lungs, each wheezing, panicked breath only making his head spin all the worse. Tears welling up in his burning eyes, he managed, “I hope that I’d find within myself the resolve to set the knife _down_. No matter who stood before me. No matter what they had done, or—or what I imagined them doing to bid me ill.” Ilberd’s expression, previously disdainful, twisted into disgust. “Death is ever tragedy, even when necessitated. I, I, I don’t believe _anything_ makes forfeit a Spoken life.” 

“You would _defend_ them? Call our plight _imagined_?” Ilberd lowered his arm, brandishing the knife in Alphinaud’s face, far, far too close. The blade’s vicious point trembled in Ilberd’s grip for his fury. “I’ve been fighting for my people’s freedom longer than you’ve drawn breath. Whatever that traitorous bitch has you convinced of—” 

“No!” Alphinaud gasped, raised his hands placatingly. He couldn’t have meant anyone but Minfilia: a traitor to Ala Mhigo for—for what? Doing what she must to stay alive, for all Eorzea’s sake? Had she revoked her citizenship at Castrum Centri, she would have been killed or worse, and the Scions left without a leader. “No, you don’t understand, I— _please_ , can’t, can’t we _talk_ about this?” 

“Your talk has done damage enough,” snapped Ilberd. “Now get the rest of those off.” Alphinaud stared, uncomprehending. “Your _clothes_.” 

He was not so foolish as to argue, not with a knife so near his throat. Tears twisting a trail down the line of his jaw and face burning with humiliation, Alphinaud brought his hands up slow, shaking fingers struggling to unfasten the clasps at the back of his collar. 

Content his prey was appropriately cowed, Ilberd brought the knife back up, crossing his arms as he watched Alphinaud strip. His eyes were cold as any winter, and so, so casual he said, “The Empire might call us savages, but it’s _they_ who best act the part. Did you know they cut the balls off little boys to keep them pretty enough to fuck? That’s what you’re courting, climbing into bed with Garlemald.” He tapped the flat of the blade against his arm; Alphinaud bowed his head, bodysuit bunched up around his waist, and reached down to unfasten his boots. “I could save them the trouble.” 

Crouched at Ilberd’s feet, Alphinaud’s only solace was that he could not see his terror. Unable to delay further—and unsure if it would be to his favor besides—Alphinaud slipped off his boots and, still crouched, pushed his clothes down past his hips. Taking a ragged breath, he scrubbed at his eyes with the heels of his palms, and rose. 

Ilberd scoffed a humorless laugh. “What do you know? Here I was ready to make a gelding of you, and you were hiding a gash all along. I took you for a girl at first; it’s gladdening to know I didn’t imagine the stink.” 

Alphinaud’s hands of their own volition clasped in front of his body, offering what laughably small measure of protection they could. But within moments his wrist was caught up in Ilberd’s hand, palm so broad it enveloped half his forearm, and the man wrenched him up until his toes barely scraped the floor. Alphinaud’s elbow and shoulder seared for the strain as he was dragged halfway across the room. Bent over the desk gasping, one wrist was pinned above his head as the other scrabbled for purchase, fingernails digging into the wood grain, a solid panel forbidding his fingers curl around the lip of the desktop. Ilberd’s boot kicked Alphinaud’s legs apart, and the chill of the air on his skin made a vicious reminder of how exposed he was to Ilberd’s sight. 

Alphinaud heard Ilberd set the knife on the table’s edge, and even could he reach it he would not dare try his luck in such a vulnerable position, when Ilberd so greatly overpowered him, having near wrenched Alphinaud’s shoulder from its socket in effortlessly grabbing him up, dead weight in but the one hand. The other now grasped between the spread of his legs, callused fingers scraping across soft lips, between them— 

“Poison,” Ilberd intoned, “is a woman’s weapon. A _coward’s_ weapon. Surely such methods would be beneath that vaunted friend of yours. Perhaps we’ve misidentified the culprit? I wonder, shall I find an empty vial stuffed inside this dirty hole?” 

Face buried in the tabletop, Alphinaud sobbed as Ilberd’s finger pressed in, dry and rasping against the walls of his cunt. The disparity in their sizes was such that even only the one finger left nothing inside him unscathed, invasion total and complete. Ilberd twisted his wrist needlessly, curled knuckles dragging against the soft skin of Alphinaud’s inner thigh, searching for contraband he must have known he would not find. He swiped around the mouth of Alphinaud’s womb with his fingertip, and the hard line of his blunt nail dug into the center of it, a touch that turned Alphinaud’s stomach, vertigo leaving him unmoored and dripping cold down his spine. 

“I’m of half a mind to ruin this,” said Ilberd, too casual for the threat his words carried, and as he slipped his finger free of Alphinaud’s cunt, delicate skin caught between nailbed and plate; in his grip, Alphinaud bucked, helpless to get away but desperate to all the same. There was no mercy to be found here, no chance Ilberd might take pity of him, and he was so much _bigger_ than Alphinaud. Looming even when they were on equal footing, _now_ — 

His hands were huge, and the bulk of him at Alphinaud’s back suffocating. He, he wouldn’t _fit_ ; Alphinaud was surely too small to take his cock. But then, did he _care_ for such a minor technicality? 

Ilberd made a thoughtful sound. “No. You can be taught your place with less—what a shame it would be to despoil the sole charm of your sex without cause.” Rough and without warning, his nails tore into the hood of Alphinaud’s clit, nerves themselves caught between his pinched fingers, and Alphinaud cried out for it. The shock of it stung as much as the pain. “No man would miss _this_ , if he thought to find a use for you.” 

Wholly consumed by fear and conspicuous seconds late, Alphinaud tugged fruitless to try and free his wrist, the plea on his cracking voice unthinking. “No, no, please—you can’t, _please,_ I’ll do whatever you like, I won’t fight, just don’t—” and he was nearly thankful for Ilberd cutting him off as it saved him knowing what mercy to beg for when he could not _think_. 

“What do you call this, if not fighting?” 

Alphinaud fell still; bit hard into his lip and choked down what sobs he could, tears streaming down his cheeks, his neck, a puddle forming beneath him on the tabletop. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. 

Letting go of Alphinaud’s clit, Ilberd groaned, his fingers brushing Alphinaud’s inner thigh, then knocking the back of it as behind him Alphinaud could hear the rustle of cloth. Against his better judgement he peeked over his shoulder, caught a glimpse of the man lazily stroking his cock—soft yet, that Alphinaud be spared a few seconds more before he may make good on his threat. “‘Sorry’,” Ilberd repeated. “Whatever for? That barest shred of bravery? I suppose by your reckoning any self defense is _unethical_. How would I _feel_ , after all, if you bruised me in saving your own skin?” 

“I just don’t want you to hurt me,” Alphinaud admitted, burying his face in the crook of his arm as if to hide from his own shame. It was no grand moral statement to simply be afraid. He scrabbled for something, _anything_ to say that could deescalate this—what did men inclined to such violence want to hear? “I’ll—I’ll be good.” 

“I don’t take my pleasure in cunts. Certainly not ones who can’t _shut up_ and take what they’re given,” Ilberd sneered, his grip on Alphinaud’s wrist tightening painfully as he continued, “should it hurt or no.” 

Ilberd’s knuckles dragged along Alphinaud’s skin as he fisted his hardening cock, the head wet with pre when it tapped his bare thigh. Voice cracking, Alphinaud asked, “What do you mean to do, then, if not have me?” Would he have exposed himself solely to intimidate? “Please, just put an end to this before you do something you’ll regret.” 

All movement ceased as Ilberd said with a voice like ice, “Would you prefer I take your _tongue_?” But that made no sense, when surely if Ilberd had made to—to rape him, he would not make use of Alphinaud’s mouth, that which would bear no mark of his claim. 

The silence could not have stretched more than seconds when Ilberd set the flat of the blade against Alphinaud’s throat. Naught more than a turn of his wrist would open it. “Little girls should be seen and not heard. To cut out this fascist bootlicker’s tongue would be to do you a favor.” Oh. He had misunderstood. _I don’t take my pleasure in cunts_ and _no man would miss this_ , fingernails digging brutal into tender flesh. 

“Well? Would _His Radiance_ prefer you suck his cock, or come on it? Tongue or clit?” Ilberd let the blade’s edge bite into his skin. “Answer me, girl, and beg for it well, before I see fit to take both.” 

Though it was a horrible choice, it wasn’t a difficult one to make. But when he tried to give voice to it, fear built up in him stronger than any he’d ever felt, worse than with Ultima, worse than with the Bahamut-tempered Phœnix, and the words caught in Alphinaud’s throat all the same—his throat itself protesting his surrender for lack of Cid or Alisaie to press him to fight, to run. 

His sister was not there, and neither was Cid nan Garlond; voice raw and little more than a whisper, Alphinaud begged his assailant—his tormentor, like as not his killer, “Cut off my clit. Please.” 

He, he, he didn’t. The blade remained steady at Alphinaud’s throat, digging in, having drawn blood not for any action Ilberd had taken but Alphinaud’s own shivering as he wept; the thin trickle cut a path down his neck as Ilberd’s other hand wrapped around his thin wrist; his cock hard and bobbing unattended, slicking the back of Alphinaud’s bare thigh with pre. “ _Please,_ ” Alphinaud gasped, “I’ve made my choice. Take—take my pleasure, not my voice. W-wouldn’t you rather I be able to scream for you?” He couldn’t think straight for the panic, couldn’t breathe: his vision fading for it, black at the edges, and it felt like he was sinking beneath the waves. Even his pounding heartbeat seemed to come from far away, heard through something thick, something _shifting_ , as was Ilberd’s bitter scoff. Alphinaud didn’t know what he was _looking_ for. “I want it,” he tried. “Please mutilate me, I want you to cut off my clit, I want to b-be good for you.” 

The knife bled a few more drops from him as it was wrenched away, down, and Alphinaud steeled himself as Ilberd’s grip on his wrist let up as well. But Ilberd’s hands didn’t go between his legs—the knife went, went… he didn’t know where the knife went, only that Ilberd’s other hand fisted in his hair, wrapping the braid around his palm then digging his nails into what was worn loose, his hold tearing into Alphinaud’s scalp as he was dragged backwards, twisted to face Ilberd, nearly eye level with the hand that did not have the knife. The hand that was loose around his hard cock now, lazy strokes smearing the head’s wetness down the length. And then the fingers in his hair twisted, wrenched Alphinaud’s head back for naught but the brutality of it. 

Everything seemed to fall away, then—the pounding of his heart; the cold pricking at his exposed skin; the bite of hot tears and cosmetics in his eyes; even, for a moment, his fear. All there was was the vile look on Ilberd’s face, the pad of his thumb sliding slow and nearly _gentle_ down Alphinaud’s exposed forehead. Other fingers still tangled in his hair, the hard line of Ilberd’s thumbnail pressed in between his third eye and the rim of the socket. 

Alphinaud stopped breathing. His gaze flicked up—he could only see the barest impression of Ilberd’s thumb, barely visible at all past his own eyebrows, the line of his brow. It was seemingly transparent even then, caught as it was in the field of only one eye. He could not look away. 

“I shan’t take it,” said Ilberd, low and dangerous. He dug his nail in, the sensitive skin of Alphinaud’s eyelid stinging for it; Alphinaud forced himself to focus on the man’s face. “Clear enough you need no extra help to hide what scum you come from. Your daddy must really like a girl in uniform to have gotten it up for some three-eyed slut.” 

“Please,” Alphinaud whispered. 

“A Leveilleur,” Ilberd intoned, “would fain be trusted to raise and lead an army beholden to no government. But Leveilleur isn’t what your _citizenship papers_ say, is it, girl?” Alphinaud sobbed as Ilberd spat in his face, readjusted his grip to hold the back of Alphinaud’s head by his hair, pull him in close. “The empire always wants what whelps take after them, and if you wanted anyone to believe the Archon would claim you as a member of his house you would at least _pretend_ to be able to use that fancy book of yours.” 

_It boggles the mind,_ Alphinaud could hear his grandfather say, unaware of any skulking children in the hallway, _that child is my own blood. It’s not as if_ Alisaie _is without talent…_

Face pressed against Ilberd’s hip, smelling the sweat on his cock, Alphinaud whined as he had then to their mother, “Magīa nōn requīrō in pretiō esse.” 

_Nec magīa requīris,_ she had agreed, taking his face in her hands and kissing the tip of his nose, _nec laudat requīris._

Ilberd shoved him hard, hard enough to force the breath from his lungs, and Alphinaud gasped breathless as he fell—a slow descent with the lip of the desk cutting a bruise beneath his shoulder blades, catching on the ridge of bone, dragging against his skin as gravity did its work. He was not yet on the floor when Ilberd caught him by the upper arm, pulled him off his feet to get him on his back on the desk. 

Ilberd’s fingers were bruising and he loomed so Alphinaud could see nothing but him, him and the knife in his other hand, gesticulating wildly, dangerously. “What did you just say to me, you Garlean _bitch_?” 

Had— _had_ he said something? He couldn’t remember now, could barely hear Ilberd over the pounding of his own heart, deafening loud now it had filtered back in, couldn’t think. “I, I—” 

His arm was released, but Alphinaud could still feel the afterimage of Ilberd’s hand—the heat of his fingers, the sharpness of his nails—as heavy as the real thing, sure that if he tried to get away Ilberd would still be there, holding him down, even as that same hand went between his legs once more, caught his clit between thumb and forefinger. 

It wasn’t pain when it happened. Not at the beginning. First was the pinched sensation of sensitive flesh pulled taut, something like cold, and then the steel of the legionary knife was cold in _truth_ , leveled with the sharp edge biting at the hood of his clit, the flat of the blade resting on his thigh and mons. 

After that, heat: heat like skimming your fingers past a flame, like tea in too thin a mug, like the wind cutting cruel in Sharlayan winter, the cold so intense your body cannot recognize it any longer as cold, cannot recognize it as the pain it will become once you’re home. Ilberd cut down in one quick motion, effortless through hood and clit and what must have been midway through his labia, pinched together between his middle finger and the root of his thumb, for the blade went back the way it came and was brought down again now towards Alphinaud’s body, cutting into outer lips and the meat of one thigh. The blade’s short arc was stopped by the impact with his pubic bone, a dull sort of sting nearly drowned out by that false sensation of heat, growing stronger with every heartbeat. 

Alphinaud’s awareness narrowed down to that single point of sensation, the lie his brain was telling him. The heat was most intense in that tiniest fraction of an ilm where the two strokes of the blade had met, building to an unassailable, unbearable assault he had no word for, no concept—it could not be pain, because it was _more_ than pain, something incomprehensibly exquisite; something, perhaps, like being extinguished, being tempered. 

Then—after his brain had catalogued the sensation, after every synapse had fired and carried with it this new understanding, something which felt like an eternity but must have been little more than seconds— _then_ it was pain. Alphinaud’s mind took longer than his body to recognize it for such, coming suddenly to an awareness of his body outside that single, terrible point to find himself shaking, with saliva trickling from his parted lips. Neither he seemed able to stop, and somehow that was more upsetting than the act of mutilation—that he could no more control his own body than he could his assailant. 

For likely no reason but that he could—as with any of this, _all_ of this, taking his pleasure from teaching helplessness—Ilberd ran his thumb, sticky with blood, over the ruined mess between Alphinaud’s thighs. Bile already half-risen in his throat, strands of it dripped from Alphinaud’s mouth amid the endless drool; when rough, callused skin dragged mercilessly against his wounds, the motions a mockery of pleasurable stimulation, the final dam broke beneath the unslaught of the pain and the contents of Alphinaud’s stomach painted the table, his hair, his bare arm. 

The knife still lay between his legs, brandished in Ilberd’s steady hand: Alphinaud could feel it, now, nicking his flesh as he shivered so violently. It rested between the lips of his cunt, a terrible promise, and Alphinaud’s sobbing only brought up more bile, his stomach acid yellow and vile. “Please, please, please…” 

What he was begging for, he didn’t know. It wasn’t important. 

Ilberd’s hand slipped away from Alphinaud’s mutilated cunt, bored of a broken toy as any child; he took his cock back in hand, streaking it with blood, with—who knew what else. Perhaps his flesh had been deposited on the tabletop, or discarded to the floor, but then perhaps Ilberd found excitement in taking himself in hand with Alphinaud’s severed clit still cupped in his palm. 

Alphinaud shut his eyes tight, inhaling on shaking breath, taste of acid and salt on his tongue. He could feel the blade between his legs, that ever-present threat; could hear the wet slide of Ilberd palming his hard cock; could see in the lights flickering behind his eyelids the choice he was being offered here. “Give me your cock,” he whispered. “I, I want it, I want y–you. Please.” 

If he were lucky, the knife would kill him—but his luck had clearly run out. With fortune turned against him, what did he have? He wasn’t strong, he wasn’t brave; he wasn’t anything, right now, save terrified. 

An astonished laugh burst from Ilberd’s throat. “You think _I_ would want _you_? If I needed to rape children to assert my virility, I’d have joined your damn legion.” Knife still in hand, he knotted his fingers in Alphinaud’s hair, now more than half pulled loose from its once-neat braid; dragged his face through the pool of sick, smearing vomit across his cheek and lips. Blood dripped onto the mess and onto Alphinaud’s nose from the blade in Ilberd’s hand, carbon grip pressed hard against his scalp. 

There he was held down for a few long seconds, devoid of breath, Alphinaud growing more certain with every frantic heartbeat that he’d be made to clean up the mess with his tongue. Instead, upon his first ragged, shallow inhale, he was dragged upright by the hair, hips slid off the table and legs dangling even once his feet touched the ground, unable to take his weight. Pinned between the desk and the bulk of Ilberd’s thigh, he was kept upright even when Ilberd let go of his hair, his head allowed to fall back against the lip of the tabletop. 

Ilberd stroked his cock to a steady rhythm; let it rest on Alphinaud’s face, the head upon his cheekbone, pre welling up at its tip. Blood sat tacky in the folds of the foreskin. Dizzy with blood loss and something like hesitant relief—the knife could not slot between his legs again, not pinned like this, but terror still had his heart clutched in its talons, leaving his gratitude feeling oddly muted, far-off—Alphinaud tilted back his head another half ilm, dragging his open mouth along the underside of Ilberd’s cock. He _must_ take this reprieve he has been given no matter the anxiety dropping stones in the pit of his stomach, go along with this, get through it, let it be finally over. If Ilberd were well-sated, he might be lenient. 

Ilberd’s knuckles knocked against his teeth, palming himself as though Alphinaud were not trying so miserably hard to appease him. The dismissal stung as bright as any slap, devastating, bringing up a flush in Alphinaud’s cheeks and new tears to his eyes—all of this futile, everything he could try set up to fail. “Let me— _please_ ,” he begged; _give me a chance to bring you pleasure_ , he couldn’t choke past his sobs, the last of his pride stopping it up in his throat. 

“Pa— _ah_ —pathetic slut.” His tone was very nearly mild, matter-of-fact, and even close as he was, his breath unsteady and the pace of his strokes ever quickening, Alphinaud could find nothing of the hedonist in his expression—Ilberd’s face set hard and focused as if on any joyless task. 

His free hand came up to Alphinaud’s forehead once more, thumb dragging the soft skin of his eyelid into the line of his brow and fingers similarly tugging down the lower lid to his cheekbone, pinning open his eye. Blood on Ilberd’s fingers stained his tears, laying a pink film over the sight of Ilberd’s last few strokes. 

He finished with a low groan, holding himself steady to leave his mark with his spend: heavy on Alphinaud’s eyelids, dripping from his brow, clumping in his hair, stinging his eyes and obscuring his vision in the two which had it. Blinking—once Ilberd’s hand fell from his face and he could—offered little respite, come cloudy and viscous and his eyelashes tacky with it, sticking. 

“Here, if you’re so desperate for Ala Mhigan cock.” Ilberd prised open Alphinaud’s jaw no more delicately than were he trying to retrieve some unpleasantness from the mouth of a dog, and shoved his cock inside. It didn’t fit even soft; Ilberd held the base of it in his hand. The other curled under Alphinaud’s chin, holding him trapped and still on his cock, his fingers digging the flesh of his cheeks into the line of his molars. 

A bitter, salt-water taste coated Alphinaud’s tongue, filled his mouth; urine spilled down his throat and past his lips, dripping down his chin. “For every man among the Braves with qualms,” Ilberd said as he finished relieving himself, tucking his cock away in his trousers, “is another champing at the bit for his ponze of Garlean flesh.” 

This would never end, then. He would starve to death weeks from now in chains, speared on a cock—perhaps two, if rage had not yet run its full course and left cold reality in its wake, where rape and torture were no brave acts of resistance against a cruel empire, but only regrets to carry with you, stealing away your sleep. 

Too worn to be afraid any longer, Alphinaud spat a mouthful of piss at Ilberd’s face, and then an invictive to match: “Irrumāre!” 

If Ilberd understood only a single word of Garlean, it would be _get fucked_. And if he understood it— 

—then perhaps Alphinaud would be permitted to die. 

Ilberd _roared_ , an animal sound, something beyond reasoning—something primal, a scream like Garuda’s, like the half-formed carcass of Bahamut. Large fingers wrapped around Alphinaud’s throat. Squeezed. Alphinaud’s lungs seized, blackness eating away at his sight like fire devoured a sheet of paper, and then he collapsed on the floor, coughing and spluttering, Ilberd taking a step back. Ilberd unsheathing his sword. 

A hand, wrapped around his ankle. His leg pulled out from underneath him in the heap he had collapsed to, now lying prone; flipped to his back, coughing still, vision gray around the edges. “Lucky I don’t kill you,” Ilberd snarled, and wrenched his thighs apart. 

There wasn’t enough air in Alphinaud’s lungs to allow a scream. The sound he made instead was a piteous keen, clotting between his legs disturbed and everything once again _burning_ , a hot, dull pain he could feel his own pounding heartbeat in like a parody of the most intense arousal. Something went between his legs: blunt, not sharp. Too big, far, _far_ too big. The sword’s hilt, it had to be, there was nothing else it could be. 

“I want you to have to live with this,” Ilberd said, “how _Ala Mhigo_ has had to live after the Undefeated fucking XIVth raped her.” And then, with a hand around his waist to hold him in place, Ilberd rammed the pommel between Alphinaud’s lips, dry except for blood and coagulum, and twisted until it entered him at long last. 

Alphinaud wasn’t _in_ pain so much as he _was_ pain—there was nothing he could place, no ache he could put a name to. It was all-consuming, inescapable, tearing him apart from the inside. He clawed at the floorboards, at Ilberd’s arm pinning him down. 

Ilberd caught up his wrist in his hand; rammed the hilt of the sword deeper inside of him. “Be a good girl,” he spat. “It’s not so hard to just lie back and think of Garlemald.”

**Author's Note:**

> xfilestheme.mp3
> 
> there's a whole overarching conspiracy theory going on here, and a lot of your questions will be answered by other fics in this continuity, or by me and arianne in our dms probably. but the main thing to know is that fourchenault leveilleur canonically spent the two years before the twins were born dead set on sharlayan getting a peace treaty with garlemald, and i've always been real suspicious of how alphinaud graduated from a school whose jp name translates out as "sharlayan magic academy" somehow without learning a single spell that he could cast under his own power until midway through heavensward. 
> 
> anyway, uh, [looks at the clock] merry christmas
> 
> thanks to @arianne for co-outlining, a few 100 words of content, and (most importantly) coming up with some of the nastiest dialogue in this monstrosity, what a mensch


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